


Sleazy like Sunday Morning

by sburbanite



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Consensual Somnophilia, M/M, Post Game, Post meteor with meteor feels, Sleepy Sex, humor and smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 16:37:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10416453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sburbanite/pseuds/sburbanite
Summary: Karkat’s bulge sometimes wakes up before he does, and Dave doesn't mind that at all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this lovely art](https://siggysins.tumblr.com/post/156670536162/reuploading-art-from-my-other-blog)

You absolutely don’t need to justify the fact that you don’t feel like sleeping in your boxers tonight, but you do it anyway. Inside your head, it’s easy. It’s hot, and the baggy shortie jams you wear in the summer are just the right amount of loose and cool that your junk doesn’t overheat in the night. They’re comfortable. It has nothing to do with the fact that Karkat’s junk has woken you up 3 mornings in a row by slithering itself out of his boxers and jabbing you gently but insistently in the ass. 

The first time was a shock, the second time an annoyance, but the third had come during a pretty intense dream and…damn. You might have woken up with a kink you never expected to have, namely being gently fucked awake while your body is in that relaxed-euphoric state of half awareness. Just because it happened a few times doesn’t mean it’ll happen again, of course, but there’s no harm in being prepared. Just in case. Karkat frowns a little when he spots you peeling off your boxers before bed, but you can deflect that shit like quicksilver these days.

“Enjoying the show, man?” You wiggle your eyebrows and a couple of other things for emphasis.

He blushes and calls you an idiot, but you think you might be a little bit busted when he falls asleep wrapped tightly around you. You’re hot as hell, but you hope it’ll be worth it.

Predictably, you cannot sleep. It’s upper-echelon gold-standard irony that you set the stage for this, loose shorts at the ready and ass pressed firmly against your boyfriend’s crotch, and yet you can’t get raise the curtain on it, so to speak. You fidget in Karkat’s arms, shift him slightly trying to get comfortable until he grumbles in his sleep and makes a threatening little bug noise that you know means stop fucking around. It’s hot. Literally and figuratively, your bedroom is warm because metal cans tend to fucking heat up when they’re out in the sun all day, and also because you know there’s no way you’re gonna get your present on dick-day morning if you don’t go the fuck to sleep. It’s almost tempting to message Dirk, to let him know “hey bro I’m all set for Karkat’s morning wiggly to take me to funkytown, but my brain is up all night to stop me from getting lucky,” and see if he can put together a reply that accurately expressed his appreciation of the irony and the desire for you to never message him about your sex life again while maintaining his dignity. You think it’d test even Dirk’s façade of cool.

Once again your aspect is fucking with you, even as you wait for a fucking. You can’t help but count every second, every minute, an infuriating involuntary countdown. It takes all of your relaxation techniques to fall asleep at the best of times, let alone with a semi pressing against the fabric of you shorts and Karkat draped over you like an amorous housecat. Eventually, you settle for messing with your phone, playing some dumb game until your eyelids are heavy and trying desperately not to picture Karkat in a sexy Ms. Claus outfit after all of those Christmas metaphors. As your can cools, the last of the summer sun’s heat leaving it cold metal rather than a literal hotbox, Karkat’s warmth starts to be cozy and welcome. His breathing is steady, a slight buzzing purr to it as he breathes much slower than a human (the first time you slept together you thought he might be dying, that that weird slow wheeze could not be healthy), solid and grounded behind you. His hand is on your hip, the other nestled under your neck, and he sometimes shifts a little and squeezes you in his sleep. You wonder what he’s dreaming about. On some level, though, you’re glad you don’t know. If Karkat needs to hold you, that’s good enough. You can do that, be that for him, even if you can’t do a lot about his nightmares.

When he settles, goes boneless around you and stops squeezing your hip, you know whatever it is has passed. He’s sleeping soundly, his chest rising and falling against you, and you’re glad. It never ceases to amaze you that he lets you experience this; seeing and feeling him utterly at peace. When you met him he was a tiny alien caffeine overdose made flash, a ball of anger who slept with his back to the wall when he slept at all. That the boy who nearly clawed your face off the first time you shook him awake at the end of a movie will let you feel his heartbeat tickling the skin of your back as he sleeps makes your mind and your heart do sicknasty flips. But then, you guess, Karkat probably never expected it either. This cliché, cluttered little slice of domesticity you’ve made from the raw firmament of a new world is all you have, but it’s more than you ever thought you’d have. It’s more than you thought you deserved. Maybe you still don’t believe you deserve this, all of this, a home and a family and someone who loves you for all of your dumb flaws and insecurities, but somehow, it’s what you ended up with. Karkat mumbles something into your ear that sounds vaguely like “Troll Will Smith,” and you snort and tell him you love him too. After that, it doesn’t take long before you’re falling into dreams.

Your REM cycle kicks in at 4.13am precisely, sending you spinning through a jumble of memory fragments. The time is the only constant, skipping and jumping as your level of awareness waxes and wanes and your mind takes a sideways trip through moonlit vistas of the Texan skyline half-melded to the Meteor’s comm. towers, crumbling under a wave of lava and smuppets until the nonsense settles out into the clear waters of an actual dream. You’re on the meteor, half asleep, rock hard and lonely as you think about Karkat for the fiftieth time that night and tell yourself you’re not fucking gay. Except, y’know, that’s bullshit. The realization doesn’t hit, exactly, as much as it seems to have been there all along. You’re in love with Karkat, you have been since *forever* so why the hell are you lying in bed wishing you were kissing him when he’s doing the same only a few doors down the hall? The room blurs and shifts as you step off the bed, and you’re outside his room almost instantly fist raised and poised to knock. He’s gonna be awake, he’s always awake, and you wonder why you didn’t see this clearly before, why you had no idea that he’s been tearing himself apart and every bit as aching with need as you have. You knock, grinning, because when he answers the door you’re going to show him just how much he’s been occupying your thoughts.

Karkat answers with a frown and his hair like a bird’s nest that’s been dragged backward through a thicket and you can’t help but lean in and kiss him because he’s always so fucking adorable when he’s grumpy. And if something feels off about the way this feels, a niggling little suspicion that you ain’t quite in Kansas anymore, you don’t care when you hear the way Karkat’s breath shudders in his throat. You pull him close, run your fingers through the tangles in his hair and listen to his surprised-aroused vocalizations turn deeper and rougher. It feels weird kissing him like this because he’s the same height as you when you know he’s a little shortass, the shoutiest little guy to ever fit a Napolean Complex like a dumb looking Admiral’s hat, but it doesn’t matter, none of it matters. All that matters is that you’re kissing him and he’s kissing you back, as intense and fumbling as any first kiss should be, and you moan as he catches your lip in his teeth *hard* and know/remember that it’s going to take a few embarrassing days for the swelling to go down.

Now you’re sure something isn’t right, because this is too much too soon and your dick is practically begging him to touch it. There’s a pleasing pressure in your gut, the warm coil of arousal as you feel his hands slip up underneath your shirt and you don’t even care that you literally kissed a dude for the first time five minutes ago because Karkat is taking up all of your attention with those claws raking against your skin. Making out has never felt so intense, the embarrassing pressure building as you rub up against him like he could never be close enough. Sensations blur, the feeling of Karkat’s lips and the hair brushing against your face and the sound of his high, needy whining turning to fire and light searing into your brain. It takes a few seconds to untangle reality from the dream, from the memory of all those fantasies and memories merging together. When you do, blinking in the beam of light streaming in across your pillow, you find that Karkat’s dingdong has started charting a detailed topography of your junk and you’re not even sure if either of you is awake yet.

He’s fever-hot as usual, the bizarre sensation of what you always kind think a big fucking tongue would feel like brushing all over your balls and ass and painting the whole lot with stickiness. Surprisingly, Karkat’s crotch monster seems to have burrowed through one of the legholes of the shorts instead of pulling them down, and you thank your own brain once again for picking a pair looser than Charlie Sheen’s grip on reality. It’s lazy and nice to just lie there, the memory of Karkat on your lips and the reality of him pressed into your back. His breathing is still slow and steady, sleepy or still asleep, although you know he’s awake when he snorts into your back as your breath catches in your throat with a quiet “fuck”. He’s got one nut in the grip of his slick, sliding tentacle squeezing gently but firmly, and your mind dissolves a little as he slides it off and starts pressing against the skin behind your nads and writhes in slow motion. He’s clicking a little, a gentle sound like a happy Geiger counter and you reckon he must be picking up the ridiculous levels of gay radiating from your body as you enjoy your tentacle-testicle rap session. The question of whether or not he’s awake becomes a lot more pressing as he starts to slip backward and the tip of him brushes against the sensitive skin of your asshole. Your back arches involuntarily and he huffs a little, but it never hurts to make sure a guy isn’t about to have sex with you while he’s not technically conscious.

“Karkat?” You mutter, shivering a little as he flicks across you again.

“Mmm.”

“Dude, are you awake?”

“Mmmhmm.”

You make an irritated noise in the back of your throat, because that’s hardly a confirmation at all, and Karkat makes a low, rumbling grumble in reply.

“Of course I’m fucking awake, Dave. You were whining and grinding against me in your sleep. Do you want me to stop? You seemed to be enjoying yourself, if the running commentary was anything to go by.”

Oh fuck, were you talking? You honestly don’t remember if you were rambling quietly to yourself or not, half fogged with sleep and arousal, but you’d be willing to bet a fat stack of boonbucks that you were. Karkat sighs contentedly and yawns into your shoulder as his dick probes you a little, and you’re hit by the soft, down-filled pillow of realization that this is just…so fucking nice.

“Hell no, Karkat,” you say, pressing your body back into him, “I could go for some fucking awake myself.”

“That is the opposite of smooth, Dave. I can see you grinning like the meowbeast that got the fucking cream, cut it out. It’s too early for your bullshit.”

“But not too early for you stick your dick in me, right?”

“That’s up to you, Strider, I can go back to sleep if you’re not going to stop ruining the moment. You think I can’t sleep through the sounds of your pitiful begging? Done it before…” Karkat yawns again, his breath tickling your neck, “…I can do it again.”

Lil’Karkat starts to withdraw, so you clench your asscheeks in protest and enjoy the squeak it draws from Karkat. It’s kind of a dick move, but you’re all about dick moves this morning.

“What, like this?” you reply, increasing your volume a little, “Please, please fuck me Karkat, jam that jelly in my donut, plunge me like one of those fancy coffee making dealies, butter my croiss-mmph.”

Karkat wraps a hand over your mouth, stifling your tide of ludicrous metaphor. It’d be shameful how much that makes your dick twitch if it weren’t for the fact that Karkat stuck his flag in that particular kink years ago, claiming the right to shut you up whenever he damn well pleases.

“Look, normally I’m happy to fuck you until you can’t talk, but can we do it the other way around this time?” Karkat purrs, the tiredness etching vibrato into his words.

You nod. As if you could ever say no to an offer like that.  
“And afterwards, you’re making me breakfast. Fuck you for making me hungry with your nonsense, Dave.”

You snort into his palm. As far as you’re concerned that’s as good a reason as any.

He lets go of your mouth as he gently slips inside you, the tapered tip of his bulge with its deluxe self-lubricating action sliding in sweetly. For all his bitching, as long as you’re not actually talking Karkat seems to love it if you make a lot of noise, the only time that’s actually true. Karkat’s bulge is going so slowly that it’s not enough, prying you open little by little as though you’d break if he went any faster, but you know better than to question Karkat when he’s in the mood to take the reins. His hands slide down your body so he can grip you below the hips, keeping your legs parted and your ass in the fast lane to prostate city. He flicks and curls, the tip brushing up against it, and you hear the familiar whining from your dream, coming straight out of your own mouth. No wonder you woke him up. Karkat gives you a minute to adjust as he sinks in further, almost painfully gentle, and you feel his whole body sigh and shudder when his hips are flush with two scoops of Strider-brand plush rump. You’re not sure if Karkat has his eyes open or not, but yours are jammed shut, lost in the sensation. It’s always so good; this feeling of holding him inside you, that you almost wish you could travel back far enough to clue in your pre-god self without unleashing some kind of paradox. He moves slow and steady, playing a familiar tune at half-speed, and your dick practically aches with the need to be touched. On the other hand (or no hands at all), Karkat is pushing your internal buttons so expertly it would be a shame to hit fast-forward.

Karkat mixes clicks in with his muffled little moans, a beat that’s all for you, and listening to him is almost better than feeling him twist against your joy buzzer. You grasp the pillow as your breathing speeds up, soft noises slipping out of you that Karkat chases with his cock until you’re babbling a litany of fucks and damns and you don’t even care if you weren’t supposed to be talking. Karkat rumbles against you, fully, happily awake now, and you whine as his claws grip you hard enough to leave marks you’ll wear proudly for the rest of the morning. He pulls you toward him, possessive and whirring with need, and you have to fight the urge to grab your dick and just work it baby until you can be free of this unbearable ecstasy. He’s hot and slick and curl-flick-writhing inside you, too perfect to be real, and you ascend into high, reedy moaning as he plays his crescendo. Nobody would pay for a recording of *that* you think, hazily, as you lose it in your shorts to the beat of Karkat’s clicks, even though you think you hit a high note you’ve never even gotten close to.  
Your moans descend the octaves as Karkat stutters, and snaps his hips into you the sound of your satisfaction, tipping him over the edge. Well, maybe you’d have one customer for Now That’s What I Call Pornographic Moans: Dave Strider Vol.1. 

One thoroughly satisfied customer.


End file.
